Fire Bad
by chrissie0707
Summary: Challenge response. A routine salt and burn has unexpected consequences. Rating for a tiny bit of language.


_Fire Bad_

They've done this dozens of times. Dozens upon dozens of times, and the process of the salt and burn goes off without a hitch. Until the spirit, whose bones are currently being gobbled up by hungry flames, decides to pop in for one last boo and Sam spooks, his foot knocking the discarded salt-loaded shotgun into the blazing grave. In Dean's eyes, that's a hitch.

Turns out, fire's hot. This, really, is a concept Dean should be able to grasp pretty well by now. So Dean might just be a moron.

Sam, grabbing and pawing and dodging furiously flailing legs, hauls him out of the hole, shouting at him the entire time. He takes a boot to the cheek and grunts, yanking on the foot before it can connect with his face a second time.

Although Dean is thankful for Sam's quick thinking and upper body strength, he's kicking to get Sam off of him, kicking since he seems to be lacking his own quick thinking because he's _on fire_. He's just below the threshold of freaking the fuck out and all that grabbing and pawing and shouting isn't doing much to put his mind at ease about the fact his right arm is ablaze.

Sam gets an arm wrapped around his middle and after that does little more than drag Dean upwards and throw him to the ground, still yelling. Once Dean is flat on his back they collectively smack out the small flames eating up his sleeve and hair, Sam earning a backhanded swat to his chest for all of his help in the matter.

When the flames are out Sam continues smacking Dean's head until he is roughly shoved away. He shoves Dean right back and pushes up off of his knees, arms wide. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

Dean rolls his eyes and ignores the question. He coughs and hacks on ash and grave dirt for about a minute before he stands, pulling out of his smoking jacket and rolling up his sleeve. Beneath the now-ruined shirt, the spot on his arm isn't too bad; a misshapen oval of bright pink skin hot to the touch, but a smear of burn cream is all he needs. His foot knocks into something on the ground and he looks down at the successfully retrieved gun and up at Sam with a grin. "Told you I'd get it." And with barely a mark on him; he can't help but laugh a little while Sam glares, the look in his eyes nearly enough to set Dean alight all over again.

Sam continues to sputter angrily, dusting himself off. "Damn it, Dean. That was just about the stupidest – "

It's when Sam glances up mid-lecture and freezes, gawking, that Dean starts to worry. The kid's mouth is hanging open and in his eyes is a strange mix of horror and amusement that has Dean's own eyes widening in something decidedly more resembling the former. He shifts uneasily, hands flexing. "What?"

Sam bites his bottom lip and redirects his eyes to a spot well over and to the left of Dean's head, a sure sign there's going to be something very untrue about whatever is next up out of his mouth. "Hmm? Nothin'."

But he doesn't pick up where he left off in his righteous rant, just stares at that spot and works his mouth. His eyes dart back, like they can't help themselves, and his fidgeting mouth pulls up in a small smile. Dean's hand starts to float up to his head. _Oh, God. _With Sam's eyebrows guiding his fingers, he brushes the spiked tips of his short hair until he hits a snag. Literally.

Dean's thinking now, maybe Sam had been right, and they do have enough guns in the trunk ad losing this _one _wouldn't have been so bad. Because he's really, really, _really _rethinking the whole leaning into a shallow yet burning grave to retrieve the shotgun thing.

Because fire burns things. Like _hair._

* * *

The drive back to the motel is pure torture for Dean as he sits sulky and pissed in the driver's seat, white-knuckled hands on the wheel and eyes looking everywhere but the rearview mirror. Unless Sammy's paying attention, they're shit outta luck if someone happens to come barreling up behind them. His hand periodically ghosts around the side of his head without actually touching, afraid to make it real or worse or both. And it doesn't help that Sam is sniggering in the passenger seat the entire way, talking about bald spots and hats and hair plugs.

Sam's not even out of the car by the time Dean's shut himself in the bathroom. He pounds on the door and tries not to sound _too_ self-righteous. "Dean, lemme see."

"Go away."

"Come on, man, you brought this on yourself." So much for the not sounding too self-righteous, and he's not the only who thinks it. Dean is silent; a pissed, seething silent.

He switches tactics. "At least let me make you sure you didn't burn your scalp all to hell."

On the other side of the door, Dean rolls his eyes. Right, because _that's _gonna work. But it does, because even though he's SURE his head isn't burned, SURE the hair is only mildly singed, he's suddenly twisting himself around in the tight space, eyes wide and searching for a decent enough angle to check the spot properly.

He can't find it. "I hate you."

"I know."

Sam's laughing again as soon as the door opens, and Dean quickly moves to slam it back in his face. Sam puts a hand on the door and braces it open. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I just…forgot how bad it was." The last word is swallowed by another howl of laughter, and Dean is not amused.

"It's not really that bad." More to reassure himself than anything, and failing miserably.

"The mirror begs to differ." The hand attempting to muffle his laughter is more out of self-preservation than anything else, because the look Dean shoots Sam is nothing less than murderous.

"The mirror isn't working," he grits out.

"Your _brain_ isn't working. What were you thinking?"

Who says he was thinking anything? Dean shrugs, eyes wide.

Sam's face goes funny, a cross between being deep in thought and sucking on a lemon, and he brings a hand dangerously close to Dean's head. "It's almost long enough...you could do some sort of comb-over – "

Dean whirls, smacking the hand away. "Get the hell away from my head."

"We could get you a wig – "

"It's not. That. Bad." He turns back to the mirror and his shoulders slump. "Ah, who am I kidding? It's worse than yours." His hand resumes its cautious aerial circling of the singed spot.

Sam huffs and crosses his arms, leaning on the door frame. "You know, Dean, vanity is one of the seven deadly sins."

Dean pauses. He squints and looks to the ceiling, silently mouthing the list along with his thoughts. He catches Sam's eyes in the mirror. "No, it isn't."

Sam frowns, eyebrows shooting off in the opposite direction of his downturned mouth. "Pride?" he offers.

Dean brings his hand down and feigns confusion. "That's the same thing?"

Sam has always wondered how this moment happens. How he can come up with a perfect dig and Dean manages to turn it around and make HIM feel like the dumbass.

Sam deems Dean's scalp undamaged and gives up on his brother a good thirty minutes before Dean gives up on himself. He retreats to his bed and channel surfs until Dean gives an audible and overly dramatic sigh.

When he finally emerges from the bathroom, Sam's all smug grins and muffled chuckles, and Dean wonders how funny Sam's going to think all of this is when he wakes up in the middle of the night with Dean's lighter right next to his long goddamned girly hair.


End file.
